


The Holy Man and The Creature

by Lennelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Demon Sam Winchester, Experimental Style, Gen, Post-Episode: s04e22 Lucifer Rising, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 10:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8485843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: The devil walks the earth. The abomination who freed him must be destroyed by the righteous.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: 1)A secret meeting place 2)Dean, Castiel, Bobby 3)The devil walks the earth. The abomination who freed him must be destroyed by the righteous.

A dry patch in a forest, dead grass and deader trees. No footprints on this soil for a century. The wind beats and sings, a riptide choir.

Two men. An angel. The remnants of a good man tied to a snapped, black tree stump in the centre. A good man who once was human. A creature, now. Everyone knows the best of intentions on Hell's road were paved by Sam Winchester.

One man, holy-good. Chosen. The creature's brother. He steps out of the line-up, hands trembling, a great weight of a knife in them, thirsty for blood. The man does not want to oblige.

The creature feels the blade sing and his chest rises, shoulders rolling back, toes digging in the mud. He sniffs the air, mouth gaping to breath it in. The night is electric, static on the winds, a storm on the rise. The creature's ink-pool eyes look in every direction at once, shining and blind.

The holy man shudders, not feeling the cold or the fresh spit of rain.

"Brother," the creature says. "Something is wrong with me. Something's not right."

The holy man stares at the beast before him. The soft face and the mournful twist of its mouth do not add up with the abominable black of its eyes. The thing is shivering, bare-chested and bare-footed. The wrists are rope-raw and blood coils down the skin of its arms. Its fingers crack and clutch at the air.

"Brother, what is happening? I'm so hungry. So hungry, brother. I need - "

"No," the holy man says. He would give this creature anything. He would give it his life. But he will not give it what it asks for.

"You must do it now," the angel speaks. Even he seems to grieve for what is about to be done. This creature was a good man once, after all.

The holy man looks down to the blade in his hand, heavenly design, sharper than the devil's tongue. A death by its hand would be quick. A death by its holy carving would guarantee purity.

The old man steps forward, cracked, worn knuckles wringing at his cap. He watches the creature with sorrow in his eyes.

"There has to be another way," he begs.

The angel dips the head of his suit solemnly. "I wish that there were," he speaks. "To let him live would be to damn him. Kill him now with that blade and God will guide him in death."

"God is not listening," says the holy man. "God does not care."

The angel does not listen. "You must destroy him. The devil will be lost without him. Use this blade before the sun rises and the devil's chosen cannot be resurrected. You and only you can do it."

"I can't," the holy man denies.

"The Empty is a better place than Hell."

"Brother, please," the creature cries. "Everything is so dark. I'm so hungry, it hurts. Make it stop, brother."

The holy man crouches, knees cracking, back bowing. He places his palm to the creatures face, holds it sacredly.

"I can make it stop, little brother," he tells the creature. "Hell will not touch you. The devil won't find you."

"Don't leave me," the creature begs, chasm-gaze looking up. "I do not want to be alone."

The holy man presses his forehead against the creature's. "I will find you, little brother," he promises. "I won't leave you there alone."

The blade thrusts, light and quick. It slices through flesh, bone and thick, beating muscle. Softer than butter. The creature notices a moment too late, brows crease in confusion, glances down and says, "oh." He blinks and his eyes crack, black burns flaking away until they're clear, the colour of autumn. The body bends and weighs down, clenched fingers numb, joints lame, eyes empty.

His face is lax. Relieved. Free.

The holy man clutches at what's left, nothing but flesh and bone, and he weeps.


End file.
